Bloodline
by samvimes
Summary: A little background into the family Vimes, I suppose you could call it. Night Watch spoilers.


I had thought that there was no introduction I could give to this   
story, but I was wrong. Really, not an introduction so much  
as a disclaimer. I take no responsibility for this. I don't know what  
it means. I just write the damn things. :) The whole story stemmed  
from the first scene, which I had intended to expand upon when   
Sep and Charity and the rest elbowed their way in.  
  
The dates of the last few in the Vimes line are taken from my  
annotations on the Discworld Timeline, which can be found at the   
L-Space Web. It assumes that Vimes is barely over forty when first  
we meet him in Guards! Guards!  
  
Oh, and the theory of eradication is true. Egyptians, of course, not   
Djelibeybis. But you knew that. Fascinating, what our ancestors got   
up to.  
  
Suggestions on how I could make this an actual coherent fanfic are  
welcome. :)  
  
  
  
Bloodline  
  
  
Dragon, King of Arms, sat behind the desk in the great records-room of   
the College of Arms. His eyes, small pinpoints of light in the   
darkness, gleamed.  
  
"Not even the kings of old will be eradicated so completely," he said.  
The man sitting opposite him held up a hand, stopping him.  
  
"Are you /familiar/ with the Djelibeyban concept of eradication?" the   
man asked.  
  
"Yes, of course. Names erased from stelae, paintings, in the case of   
engravings, of course, blasted out -- "  
  
"/No,/" the man said. "You do not understand."  
  
Dragon gave him a mild look. He was going on a hundred years old, and  
had seen many things in the decades since his...conversion.  
  
"You do not remove the name from the history books. You remove the   
glory," the man continued. "The Djelibeybis very carefully removed just  
enough of the name so that it could still be read. They drew a...a line  
through it. If you will."  
  
"What are you suggesting?"  
  
"By all means, remove Vimes from the ledgers of Society. We have   
already seen to it that the ancestral home is to be torn down. We have   
already confiscated his lands and assets from his children. But a trace   
of him must be left."  
  
"Oh yes?"  
  
"Yes. So that the people will remember. It must be remembered that a   
murderer gets just punishment."  
  
Dragon pursed his lips. His visitor was something of a romantic, but he  
was also the city's new leader. And a man who had buried his   
predecessor in five graves.   
  
Just in case.  
  
"He killed a king," the man continued. "However good his intentions   
might have been. He killed a king."  
  
"And now he has, in turn, been...deposed," Dragon said. "Indeed. I   
believe I understand you now. A reminder to his...descendants, as   
well."  
  
"Oh, yes, the boy." The man flapped a hand, dismissing young Septimus  
Vimes casually. "He's simple."  
  
"Is he, my Lord?"  
  
"He will cause no problems. I have arranged for his family to reside in  
one of the...less glorious parts of the city. Charity Vimes is a proud   
woman. She must be broken."  
  
"Humiliated, perhaps?"  
  
There was a small spark of pleasure in the man's eyes. "Certainly."  
  
"And what shall I do with this?" Dragon asked, opening one of his   
books, carefully. The family tree of the Vimes', written mainly in   
the crabbed handwriting of the last King of Arms, rested on one   
page. On the other was a somewhat splendid coat of arms. Vimes had   
commissioned it when he became leader of the City Watch.   
  
"Destroy it. Is it possible to prevent its resurrection?"  
  
"Oh, yes. There's plenty of precedent."  
  
"Do it."  
  
***  
  
Charity Vimes was a hard, thin woman, proud and strong like her   
father, but unlike her father, she had friends.  
  
Or she thought she'd had, anyhow.  
  
She'd tried to call on half a dozen of her so-called friends, and   
found them all 'not at home'. She was sure someone would take her in.   
She was /sure/.  
  
Now she stood outside of a small, paint-peeling cottage on Cockbill   
street. None of them had. So she'd finally swallowed her pride and   
come here.  
  
They had given her the house outright, while she lived. That was   
something. But such a house. Three rooms -- a small kitchen-parlour-  
workroom, a bedroom for her, and one for Septimus.  
  
She had no money, she had no particular skills, and she had no family   
save Septimus, ten years her junior, who had to depend on her. She had   
no friends.   
  
Septimus, barely ten, looked at the house calmly. "It's not so bad," he   
said. "It'll be like when we went with dad on campaign."  
  
"Hush yourself, Septimus."  
  
He went into the house before her, his eyes traveling over the poky   
fireplace, the old stove, the cheap furniture. He sat on the sagging   
bed in the small cubbyhole of a bedroom, and looked out his window.  
  
"I can see the whole street from here!" he called. Charity stepped   
inside. She looked in the bedrooms. She touched the stove. She sat on   
one of the two elderly chairs.  
  
She burst into tears.   
  
Septimus did not move. His father had taught him that this was   
something that women occasionally did, without apparent reason, and it   
was best ignored. He watched the street, instead. There were lads out   
there, playing games. There were women talking, and men standing   
outside of small, peeling houses like this one. None of them looked   
particularly wealthy, but none looked very unhappy, either. The men   
laughed. The children played. Septimus and Charity had never heard   
their father laugh in actual amusement.   
  
He got up and walked out into the street. The other children stopped   
their game, which apparently involved pitching small chips of stone at   
the gutter and seeing who could push the dead rat closest before it   
fell into a deeper gap just between kerb and gutter.   
  
"Who're you?" one boy demanded.  
  
"My name's Sep," he said. "Who're you?"  
  
"I'm Little," the boy replied. "Want to play?"  
  
Septimus picked up a chip of stone and pitched it carefully. His father   
had already begun his training in arms, and he was not a bad shot. The   
rat teetered on the edge.  
  
"Now you go, right?" he asked Little, who nodded. The boy pitched his   
own stone, and the rat tumbled in.  
  
"You win," said Little, resignedly. Septimus smiled a superior smile.   
A Vimes always won.   
  
"Wot's your mum do?" Little asked, as the troop of boys wandered down   
the street in search of another dead rat.   
  
"Don't have a mum."  
  
"Who was that with you, then?"  
  
"My sister Charity."  
  
"Well, all right, what's /she/ do?"  
  
"Dunno. Not much of anything. What's your mum do?"  
  
"Takes in laundry. Dad works at Long Hogsmeat. Does your dad have a   
trade?"  
  
"My dad's dead," said Septimus. It was tinged with a hint of pride;   
where he came from, most everyone had some gloriously dead uncle or   
father or brother. "Look, there's one."  
  
By the time he returned that night, Charity had pulled herself   
together, possibly because she had no other choice. Someone had to   
provide food for the two of them. Someone had to discover where   
Septimus would go to school, now, and where they could get clothes,   
and how the life of the Cockbill Street woman was led. She'd found a   
clothes store up above the Shades that was willing to hire her because   
she spoke well and knew a thing or two about fashion. She'd bought a   
loaf of bread and some butter. Sep ate in silence.  
  
"We'll be all right, Septimus, you'll see," Charity said.   
  
"Course we will."  
  
"I'm sure someone will think to help us out. They wouldn't be so cruel.   
It's just for a little while."  
  
"I like it here."  
  
"You'll get tired of it, I think," she said sourly. "I know I will. I   
already am."  
  
She touched the pocket of her dress, where two sheets of folded   
parchment lay. They had been sent anonymously; they were the escutcheon   
and family tree of the Vimes bloodline.   
  
Sooner or later, a Vimes always won out, in the end. Sometimes it might   
just take a bit longer.  
  
***  
  
Sam Vimes stood on the creaking wood floor and stared at the wall,   
thoughtfully.   
  
Unlike most of the families in Cockbill street, the Vimes' had lived  
in the same house -- paying rent to some bastard up in the nice parts  
of town -- for generations. Over the years, several inhabitants of   
the bedroom had scrawled their names on the thin plaster; in fact,   
most had probably been written by proud parents. The list was fading,   
towards the top, but could still be read.  
  
Septimus Vimes, son of Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes, 1689  
Perseverance Carleton, son of Charity Vimes Carleton, b. 1693  
Justice Vimes, son of Septimus Vimes, b. 1698  
Samuel Vimes, son of Justice Vimes, b. 1707  
Eleanor Merry, wife of Samuel Vimes, 1730  
Ellen Vimes, daughter of Samuel Vimes, b. 1730  
Benjamin Vimes, son of Samuel Vimes, b. 1732  
Virtue Vimes, son of Benjamin Vimes, b. 1756  
Laurel Gafney, wife of Virtue Vimes, 1760  
  
The list went on and on. Samuel traced his finger down it, until he   
reached the final entries.  
  
Gwilliam Vimes, son of Liam Vimes, b. 1900  
Thomas Vimes, son of Gwilliam Vimes, b. 1925  
Samuel Vimes, son of Thomas Vimes, b. 1946  
  
He could hear voices in the other room; hushed, out of respect for his   
presence. The bedroom was nothing more than a store-room now, but   
somehow this was important. He placed his helmet on the floor, and   
began to write.  
  
Sybil Ramkin, wife of Samuel Vimes, 1985  
Samuel Vimes II, son of Samuel Vimes, b. 1990  
  
He retrieved his helmet and stood, walking back out into the   
dressmaker's shop that was now where his home had been. They were   
women from the neighbourhood and they remembered him, and even if   
they hadn't, they were the sort who recognized and respected the   
badge.   
  
He nodded to the woman behind the counter, and walked out into the   
street.   
  
***  
  
Septimus, his eyes bloodshot, hair dishevelled, walked out of his   
bedroom. Charity and her husband Michael and the boy Perseverance   
were seated at the table, waiting.  
  
"It's a son," he said, hoarsely. Charity threw her arms around his   
neck. "A baby son," he repeated. "I'm a father, Charity. I'm a father."  
  
She laughed. Septimus swept Perseverance up into his arms, as Michael   
Carleton thumped him on the back.   
  
"His name is /Justice/," Septimus annouced. "After father."  
  
Charity hugged him again. "Congratulations, Sep."  
  
But Septimus was staring at the doorway. There was a man standing   
there, who looked eerily like father. The same narrow face, yes, but   
also the hard, wiry look of an angry man, and the dress of a Watchman   
-- or possibly a soldier. A uniform, anyway.   
  
The man stood, looking down the street, and then glanced over his   
shoulder. He seemed to look right through Septimus. Septimus could see   
every detail; the strange boots, the odd cut of his trousers, the   
copper badge on his breastplate.   
  
Then there was a squall from the other room, as the newly-born Justice   
Vimes complained bitterly about the general state of affairs in the   
world, and the spectre faded as quickly as it had come.   
  
"It's all right, he's only hungry," called his wife. Which was fine,   
because Septimus had suddenly thought of something he had to do. He   
walked into the tiny bedroom, past his wife and infant son, and   
crouched by the wall where he'd signed his name years ago, and added  
Charity's son when he'd been born. He wrote slowly.  
  
Justice Vimes, son of Septimus Vimes, b. 1698  
  
A Vimes always won out, sooner or later. And when they did, the names  
would be here, waiting.  
  
END 


End file.
